


Sick Like Me

by 89JadedPictures



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, M/M, Multi, One Shot, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 11:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11896929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/89JadedPictures/pseuds/89JadedPictures
Summary: Tom Riddle seems to be the only person not amused by the new 7th year transfers Harry Evans and Hermione Granger. The knowing looks they give him are enough to drive him to paranoia, to suspect them of time travelling, and even drive him to stalk them for answers.





	Sick Like Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [I_was_BOTWP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_was_BOTWP/gifts).



> HP/TR/HG, because why the hell not? Time travel/SMUT/Language/BDSM/M.F.M/M.F/Grey!fic warning!

To everyone at Hogwarts in the year 1944, the new 7th year students who had transferred in mid-September were more interesting than classes. The other students, the staff, the house elves, Hagrid; everyone was intrigued by the two so completely that it rubbed Tom Riddle in a very bad way. Even his followers couldn’t keep the duo’s names out of their mouths. Of course, Tom hadn’t told them to… No need to raise suspicion. Not yet.

The female students swooned over Harry Evans; his messy black mop, striking green eyes, and the scar on his forehead - and other body parts hinted at while he wore his uniform- only added to his mystery, and somehow complimented his handsome, rugged, though gracious, persona. He was clearly brave, assured, confident in himself as a student, Quidditch player, and friend, and had proven himself an advanced wizard; only neck and neck with Tom…

But, they all scored and performed below Hermione Granger. So badly, she’d become a Goddess amongst them all. Even with the scandalous way she dressed! The top button of her shirt was always undone, showing off the smooth length of her collarbones and neck, and the bottom hem of her skirt ended just above her un-stockinged knees, instead of the standard mid-calf or lower. Not one woman hated her, even with her immoral disregard of the dress code, and every man wanted her on his arm no matter how much they respected Harry… because she was Harry’s.

At first, the school thought them best mates, or siblings, or even fraternal twins with how they seemed to know every little thing about the other, and how they did not leave the other’s side for any reason.

After two days, when Harry had been caught swooping low to kiss the wild haired witch chastely on the lips, the school was a cesspit of broken hearts. The girls wailed over Evans, the boys frowned and walked downtrodden through the halls over Granger. 

Then the school began a fast trek down the road to becoming piteous, pious louts; following them, and fawning over them, and ‘oooh’ing and ‘aahhh’ing every time either of them chose to show off.

Everyone, that is, except Tom Marvelo Riddle and his…. uh… social circle.

He hated the new Gryffindors with a fire that burned with the rage of a thousand suns! It had taken him twenty seconds to decide he didn’t like them, thirty-three to decide he hated them, and about ninety to conclude he’d have to kill them, and that was almost a record in Tom’s book. Myrtle? Her death had been accident, but had it really..? He almost thought that the Basilisk, which he’d affectionately renamed Tomasina, had read his mind before slithering up to find that loud, blubbering bint.

Tom hated Harry Evans and Hermione Granger, and had been avoiding them for 22 days without too many incidents… The first incident occurred on day one, when he’d first seen them, when the two had turned to look at him after being Sorted (which Tom had found insane considering the hat had barely had to touch either of their heads before it practically shrieked, as if being burned, both times, “Gryffindor!”), and Harry’s face was set in a dark, though subtle, glare, and Hermione’s was completely void of emotion. He hadn’t known which was more disturbing, but he had instantly decided they knew something that they shouldn’t.

They looked at him as if they saw right through him, and that was unacceptable. He had immediately begun to advise his followers to do all they could to make their lives hell, separately of course. There were a few he did not quite trust to handle the responsibility, which was insane to him as well, because namely he worried about Abraxas Malfoy. He’d never had a problem with trusting the Malfoy man before, that was until he’d noticed the way his general looked at the witch. Her name was enough for Tom to know that she was at least a half-blood, if not a Mudblood, and for the pureblooded Malfoy to find her attractive bothered Tom, on top of the fact that the witch was a show off and a tramp.

Abraxas may have denied this claim when Lorenzo Nott had mentioned something to him about it, but Tom knew a liar when he saw one. Tom lied every moment of every day, pretty much, so he was well equipped when it came to detecting the secretive, and not only did Malfoy hold a secret, but so did Evans and Granger. They knew something, and every other day he seemed to get new material to be even more suspicious! He already had had a list as long as his arm by the time the first week had started, and it was enough to spin his head!

• They were English, with English accents, but claimed to have been raised and schooled in the States, which Tom didn’t buy for a moment. Their mien was too... controlled to be American. It also made him wonder if their parents’ relationship- because for both families, seeing as the Gryffindors were an item and not related- to have moved families internationally seemed irregular to Tom. If they were cousins, then that seemed less strange.  
• They were covered in scars, made more obvious in Hermione’s choice to not wear stockings, long skirts, or even knee length socks, and left Tom, who was well versed in the side-effects of Dark Magic, wondering what the hell the two had been doing with their lives, and who they’d been dueling. He’d heard through the grapevine that they claimed to have had an accident at their previous school, which was why they left, which did nothing to quell Tom’s suspicion. The both of them, surely, were far too able, too learned, to have such an accident. And, if it were an accident, they’d be able to fix the scars with magic. They were so prominent that Tom knew he would have done so, unless, of course, it wasn’t possible… What school allowed the use of Dark Magic, unless the two themselves were practitioners of the art. Which led to an entirely different list titled “Competition”, but Tom doubted it. They had “do-gooder” written all over them.  
• They used strange lingo that didn’t seem the least bit American, either. It wasn’t brutish enough, but it was not from England, either. What the hell was a “wireless”, and who was “Minister Fudge”? Whenever had there ever been a Minister Fudge? But, to their credit, both of their hair-dos did look like something that would come out of the “wild wild West”.  
• No Professor, not even Dippet, blinked an eye at the two and their outlandish behavior, as if they were ghosts or poltergeists the staff could do nothing about. The professors simply allowed the way they dressed, and they had never been punished when another student attempted to duel them; to test themselves against the “amazing” Evans and Granger.  
• Harry wore strange spectacles with frames unlike any Tom had ever seen. They were made out of something he couldn’t begin to place. Surely they weren’t metal.  
• They both could perform a great deal of wandless magic, and the witch could do many spells wordlessly as well, which made Tom wonder what Americans fed and taught their youth. It also led him to wonder if they were older than seventeen, because they were far more advanced than anyone else their age. (This, of course, only made Tom mad with jealousy, though he wouldn’t admit it.)  
• Dumbledore was entirely too fond of the both of them, and was none too fond of Tom. He wondered why they’d go silent every time he walked by the old man speaking to the two in hushed tones. The Gryffindors would give him their usual glances and ignore him, and the old Professor would seem none-too-pleased, but still acknowledge him. The silence, though, that broke over them at his nearness was not a figment of his imagination. At first he’d thought himself paranoid, but some fifteen times in a row was just ludicrous!  
• He’d overheard whispered snippets of conversation which he was sure pertained to him, but couldn’t understand what they meant. Things such as, “You saw Avery, Nott, and Malfoy out on the pitch practicing. Their arms were visible. He hasn’t marked them yet.” Or, “Where do you think he hid it for the past year? It’s probably in his bag with the other books.” And most disturbingly, he could have sworn Harry had hissed a curse-word under his breath in a language only Tom knew.  
• They had their own room! Instead of bunking in Gryffindor tower, the two had been given living quarters than no one else seemed to know the location of. What was that all about?! Favoritism didn’t even begin to cover it. It was as if they were celebrities at some high-end hotel.  
• And, on a side note, the fact that both wore their sleeves rolled up, not caring a bit for starching or non-wrinkle charms, was bizarre. It just wasn’t acceptable in their day in age to walk around looking like a…

Tom, who had been reviewing his mental list for the hundredth time whilst ignoring Professor Binns’ History of Magic lesson, froze and let his jaw fall slack, let his eyes widen just a tad as they made a track across the room to the two he’d been obsessing over for the better part of a month.

They both sat directly to his right, but on the far end of the classroom, and the Slytherin wizard leaned over just enough to look past the three other students who separated him and them… only to find Evans resting his head on his hand, elbow on the desk, and his green eyes almost waiting for Tom’s own hazel. The green eyes mentioned locked onto Tom’s face, and for a moment he did not break the eye contact until a smirk graced his face, and he looked to Hermione. He nodded at Tom while looking at the witch, and she leaned forward in her seat to look over at the Slytherin.

At first, her face was as it almost always was. She was a very serious witch who reserved most of her smiles for Harry, but when she looked to Tom, registered his wide eyes and slack jaw, one side of her mouth twitched, and then rose to give him a very evil looking smirk that burned brightly up into her eyes. He’d seen the look before, when Mulciber had decided to challenge her to a duel, only for her to wordlessly put him through a door. She’d looked over Mulciber’s body with a very similar look, like she owned his pathetic arse, and now she was giving Tom his own version. He would have probably found the look somehow amusing if his brain hadn’t exploded.

Later, when he was in the sanctuary of his room, on the bed with the curtains drawn, he’d find it ridiculous that their disregard for sleeve decorum was the clue that made it all click, but for the moment, all he could think was,

“Bloody hell!” he yelled as he stood from his chair, looking over at the Gryffindors. The entire room turned to look at him, but he didn’t care, because he only cared for the two at whom he stared… and pointed as he ineloquently, uncharacteristically stammered, “You- you two- you are… time… what?! How!?”

The others in the room looked at him like he’d grown nine heads and fallen pregnant, but not the two Gryffindors. Their knowing smirks… Their knowing looks the entire time! They looked at him like they knew him because they did know him… When did they know him was the question, and their looks of pure evil mischief were enough for him to know that his suspicions were true.

They were time travelers. Somehow, some way, they had come to him from a time he had not yet lived.

With brain alight and his Professor questioning him loudly, Tom scrambled to collect his things and ran from the room, glancing back over his shoulder to see that the two had changed their expressions once the class had begun to inquire as to what Tom was talking about, but their eyes never left him.

(*)  
For three days Tom fell ill. Or, that’s what he told everyone else, at least. Really he spent seventy-two hours in a state of hyper-paranoia. What he thought was hyper-paranoia, anyway. He went back and forth between believing his theory having merit, and it being an inevitable side-effect of one finally losing their sodding marbles. He knew he had problems, it was obvious, but he didn’t think he’d lose it this early in the game.

But, if he wasn’t losing it, then Harry Evans and Hermione Granger –if those were their real names- were time travelers, probably from the future, that came to thwart him before he could finish what he’d already started!

…

Then he’d revert back to thinking himself insane, and resort to lying in bed and making another list, one titled “Plan B”:  
Step 1. Flee England.

He’d figured out some other details such as possible destinations, what to pack for each destination, how he planned to get there, options and ways to make money while abroad, as well as a detailed list to leave for Malfoy and Mulciber with instructions on how to “hold down the fort” until he got back.

Then- an idea came to him; an awful, wonderful idea that would solve all his problems with the flick of his wrist and a couple of well aimed Avadas...

He also doubted this option at first, because Granger was indeed a force to be reckoned with, and he knew Evans had to be some kind of wonderful for the witch to call him hers. If he did not already smell the do-gooder on them, he’d consider bringing them to his side, but he knew better. They were friends of Dumbledore and not to be trusted.

For three long and arduous days Tom Riddle weighed option after option, reviewed list after list, until he came to his final decision: Kill them all. He would first dispatch of Evans and Granger, and when he was done with them he would find Dumbledore and do the same. He’d do whatever necessary to dispose of the bodies, whether it be banishing them or hiding them in an expandable item until he could get them out of the school, it didn’t matter.

He was going for blood, and it began with a basic step: Stalk them.

(*)

It was with purpose that Tom left his room on the third day, just before he suspected dinner would end, and made his way to the second floor corridor to hide in the shadows of an alcove behind a suit of armor in wait. Being as it was mid-October, the sun was already beginning to set earlier and earlier each day, so Tom found many adequate places to hide as he watched the two time-travelers walk up the stairs.

In the thirty minutes he waited prior to seeing them, he listened as groups of students left the Great Hall, watched as the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws headed for their towers, and he even took it upon himself to muffle the sound of his shoes; the hoards that were his non-followers a reminder of how sound carried through the corridors. Not long after the Ravenclaws and other Gryffindors had gone, his Gryffindors appeared, and he followed them up the next flight of stairs to the third floor, to the moving staircase, all the way up to the 7th floor, a floor that Tom did not frequent, and in a quick, assured way that suggested the two were quite familiar with their surroundings; more familiar than anyone who had inhabited the castle only a month ought to be.

Tom was aware that over twenty first-years had died on the moving staircase since the school’s opening in 990, and the way the two Gryffindors had navigated the traitorous puzzle had been as familiar as any other person in their year.

He managed to stay undetected, the Slytherin assuming, what with his three day disappearance, that they weren’t expecting him, perhaps thinking him ill, or that he even fled the country at his figuring them out. When the two stopped before a blank wall just around a corner, Tom luckily having slowly peered around the corner first before taking it, for if he had he would have ran right into them, he hid behind a statue of a mermaid on the opposite wall of the hall in which he resided, and looked around the statue and the corner as best he could without being seen.

Then a strange thing happened.

Granger began to pace back and forth while Evans leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and a look of indifference on his face, as if the woman pacing was a normal occurrence, or not the least bit odd. Tom did find it odd, of course, but not as odd as watching a door appear in the blank wall just inches to the right of Harry’s shoulder. The two entered the room, closed the door behind them, and left Tom to open-mouth gape at the new entryway.

He waited some time in his hiding spot, weighing his options. Like how this secluded area of the castle- equipped with a vanishing room- could possibly be the perfect place to handle a problem or two. But the problem of unfamiliar ground arose, and he also considered that knocking on the door- for he was most definitely tempted to do so- could be detrimental in unforeseeable ways, and he did not like the element of surprise unless it was working for him.

After forty minutes of waiting, and deducing that the Gryffindors weren’t coming out of the room any time soon, nor was the door doing to vanish, he cleared his throat, brushed his hands over his clothes to straighten himself out, placed his “mask” on, and made for the door where he knocked two brisk knocks before stepping back to wait. A minute passed with no answer, so he reached out to knock again, this time only having to wait fifteen or so seconds before the door swung wide to reveal Harry Evans, dressed only in pajama bottoms, showing off the trailing, jagged red scars that wove themselves around his torso and arms.

The Slytherin figured it was safe to assume that he had found their mysterious living quarters.

Tom had not been expecting this, so his mask slipped for a moment, taking his manners with him, and he caught himself staring curiously at the marks, rather than ignoring them. That is, until Evans greeted him evenly, “Riddle.”

The two had never spoken to one another before, but were familiar with names. That was a clue that tickled Tom a bit. Who was he to them? They’d never been introduced, yet Evans used his name with an air of familiarity, or at least said it as is he’d done so a thousand times before.

“Evans,” Tom greeted with a small nod, which the Gryffindor returned with a straight face. He did not seem pleased by Tom’s presence, but still, somehow, unsurprised.  
“Do come in,” Evans insisted almost immediately, stepping aside, his arm stretched out and showing Tom a better view of what lay beyond in the room he’d been curious about since hearing of the Gryffindor’s special treatment.

The Gryffindors, who were just that, were given their own secret quarters instead of staying in the tower with the others… Why?

Tom’s eyes bounced around the room, Hermione’s absence the first thing he noticed, but he entered anyway, because the offer to enter their quarters meant, to the Heir of Slytherin, that he and Harry were finally going to be able to have a little chin-wag. Perhaps not over a cuppa, but wands would not be drawn immediately. Tom was ok with this, because he wanted answers first. He could shoot later.

Evans closed the door behind him as the Slytherin came to stop a few feet from the door, looking about, the room unlike any room Tom had ever seen. It was completely round, which wasn’t foreign, but it was lined in floor to ceiling windows. There was a large, lowered, half-moon pit lined with couches in the center of the room, the straight edge of the lowered pit the starting point of a wall that served as a support and privacy divider, as well as a fireplace, and cut the room almost entirely in half; save the spaces between the dividing wall and the outer wall of windows that were only a meter apart, the floor to ceiling gaps serving as open doorways to what Tom could only assume was the bedroom.

In the half of the room he and Evans stood in there was a small kitchenette with an island and stools to his right, and to the left was an open doorway leading to the darkness of their privy. There were many house plants, some of which were magical, and a multitude of paintings. The one that caught Tom’s eyes, however, the one that found him taking three or four unconscious steps further into the room to stand behind the couches in the pit, was the largest of the paintings that hung above the fireplace on the dividing wall.

It was a Muggle painting, Tom could tell, of Hogwarts on a dark night, in shambles, with holes and crumbling marble. The entryway was halfway blocked by debris; anything made of wood was either smoldering or in flames.

It was beautiful.

The Heir of Slytherin was so intrigued by the painting he’d almost forgotten the reason he even walked into the lavish, futuristic, room. It wasn’t until Evans, who’d moved to his side without his noticing (this was how consumed he was), decided to ask Tom, “Do you like the painting?”

Tom nodded absently, answering, “Yes. It’s exquisite. Who is the artist?” He’d turned to Harry as he asked this, who gave a small- almost sad- smile as he simply said,  
“Hermione.”

Tom lifted his brow. The witch never failed to surprise, it would seem. He momentarily wondered about her muse, as well as wondered where and when she, a “newcomer”, had found the time to paint something so grand in the short 25 days she’d been in the castle, and then to have done so with the building in ruins. He added the painting to both his big list, as well as the one titled “Competition”, right below the bullets ‘suspicious 7th year transfer’, ‘dark curse scars’, and ‘magical prowess’.

“She is very talented,” Tom replied politely, though his voice lacked its usual false pleasantry. The sight of the painting had almost pulled his “mask” off.

“It’s her mind,” Harry said, turning back to the painting. “She has an avid memory, among many other talents.” Tom had many questions at Harry’s statement, for he was sure he heard him say ‘memory’, which brought the Slytherin back to the task at hand. But the Gryffindor was already walking away, motioning for Tom to follow him while saying over his shoulder, “Come on.” He disappeared behind the divider, and Tom hesitated before letting curiosity pull him after Harry through the doorway to the left.

The wall was indeed a privacy creator, for this was where he found the one bed; the one bed the two undoubtedly, scandalously, shared. It was empty, large, and covered in light grey bedding. To one side was a nightstand that was covered in rubbish, and the other side had a bookshelf nightstand combo that was just as messy, but seemed to have been destroyed with purpose. The first one just looked like hell.

Behind the bed was the only other part of the room, save the divider and the bathroom, that wasn’t made of windows; a wall the same width as the bed on which a large silver mirror hung. As Tom walked past Harry, who’d stopped just inside the room, he drew nearer the bed as he inspected his surroundings. However, as his eyes moved about, and he took another few steps, he caught a glimpse of Hermione in the mirror; the witch naked, gagged, and suspended to the divider wall with leather straps.

A gasp left Tom’s mouth as his eyes told his brain what he was seeing, and he spun around so quickly he, so stricken with shock, fell onto the edge of the bed and held his chest. His heart was pounding erratically at the sight of her. He’d never been with a woman, let alone seen one naked- he had bigger fish to behead and pike- so for his first encounter to be so unorthodox, brazen, revealing, and downright sick, had taken him from his feet.

But, just as he had been with the painting, he was enthralled, and couldn’t keep his eyes from taking in her every little detail from his place on the bed, which, mixed with her place on the wall, made for a very intimate view.

He started, of course, with the parts of her that most men would find enticing; her breasts, which one might consider medium in size, had stiff-peaked, rose-colored nipples, and her sex had very little hair, like it had been trimmed and shaved. Her skin was the color of honeyed cream, and was covered in pink scars that, like Harry’s, took nothing from her beauty. The ones that danced and swirled around and over the flares of her hips drew his eyes for many, many seconds.

There was one scar that did take from her beauty was the crudely printed, bright red, scarred word “Mudlood” on her left forearm. Tom assumed she must have covered it with a charme until then, because surely someone would have noticed it by now, what with their lack of sleeve decorum. It also pulled Tom’s attention because it was in the same exact place he branded his cattle. It was so stark, and it gave away a secret- a clue- so vital, that Tom could no longer ignore the reason he had come.

Standing from the bed with a scowl on his face, he asked loudly as he looked between the both of them, “Who are you? Why would you bring me here and show me this?” He felt his mood darken further, and his tone lowered into a snarl as he went on, “What are you two playing at, and where did you come from, and what means did you use to travel back in time?”

Harry, since he was the only one who could technically answer him, what with the gag in Hermione’s mouth, and frowned at Tom over his spectacles while speaking in a calm voice, “We are victims. What we are here for, and what we are playing at will come to light soon enough. We came from the year 1998, and there is no way in hell I am answering that last one.”.

Tom licked his drying lips and asked, “Tell me the answers. What will come to light?” He had to admit that Harry’s admission had caused him to feel a bit lightheaded, for there was not one indication of the Gryffindor lying to him. Tom, the human lie detector, had no blips on his polygraph. It was enough for him to want to reach for his wand, but he didn’t, because he still had questions that needed answering, and that couldn’t happen if one or more of them were dead. He couldn’t kill them. Not yet.

“Not yet,” Harry said, taking his eyes from Tom to look at Hermione, the man taking a few steps towards the witch. He reached out to lay his hand between her breasts, palm out, fingers splayed and skyward, and began to slowly drag his hand down her body, allowing his thumb and pinky fingers to brush across her nipples, pull her breasts down, only for them to spring back up as his palm and fingers traveled lower; down her taut, quivering stomach, her lower abdomen, slowly dragging it down to her mound where he finally cupped her sex.

He turned to the horrified- mesmerized- Tom and asked, “Isn’t she beautiful?”

The Slytherin’s lips quivered as his tongue jumbled responses to the tip: “Yes”, “No”, “She’s filth!”, “Yes”, “You’re both mad!”, “No!” Eventually, after a few seconds of resembling a fish out of water, Tom managed, “I am not playing this game with you, victims. I want nothing to do with what you have here. All I want to know is, is if you’re a threat to me.”

“Why?” Harry asked, turning his head to look at Tom, a brow lifted in amusement. “Are you going to kill us if we are?” His tone was almost taunting, like he was holding Tom’s wand in his hand while he spoke, waving it just out of reach.

It was then that Tom did reach for his wand, hand into his pocket, and upon finding it empty gave Harry and incredulous look as he growled, “My wand!?”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said with a smirk, pulling his hand away from the witch and turning to look at him fully, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s safe in your room. And don’t bother Summoning it. This room won’t let it in.” Tom, though he’d been looking for answers, was getting a lot of them, and the thought of the Gryffindors taking this particular precaution almost made his mind pop, until Harry elaborated, “If it makes you feel any better, we don’t have our wands, either. You and I aren’t allowed to duel, so we made an administrative decision: No wands.”

At this, Tom grew weary of being confused, but he forced himself to remember that every second that ticked by was another chance for him to get information out of them, and it didn’t matter if he liked it or not. He was getting to the bottom of things, and he could say that he was happy that neither had their wands, even if he didn’t have his.

He took a few deep breaths, forcing his mask back on as best as possible, fighting to keep his cool, before he asked, “Why aren’t we allowed to duel?” He had more questions than this, but figured this the more important, and perhaps the first real clue, about the future the two had travelled from, aside from the fact that they were happy to strip each other down and tie each other to walls, of course.

Harry looked up to the silent witch, and she glanced at Tom before looking back at her counterpart to nod, who then turned to Tom with his wild green eyes to say, “Our wands share a core from the same Pheonix. Every time we face each other, we always fail to kill the other. Our wands won’t let it happen.”

“Hm…” Tom hummed as he took this in, only to ask, “In this future, us dueling happens often?” He was so very intrigued by this. Who was this Evans, that his future self would consider a mere babe a threat? That Evans was important enough for him to want to kill him, and yet fail multiple times over for whatever reason? Why was Harry so important to the future Voldemort?

“Often enough,” Harry mused.

“What are your real names, then? And who are you to me?” If they were giving information out, then Tom was going to get what he could.

“Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, and you, to us, are Voldemort.”

Tom frowned at Harry’s obvious dodging of their future relationship, but still asked, “Are you related to-”

“Yes. Obviously. He’s my grandfather.”

“Does he know?” Tom had noticed that the Harry and Flea looked similar, but the future Potter was stocky in build aside from painfully scrawny like his grandfather, and his eyes were so green that the blue of the present Potter’s seemed nearly dull.

“No. No one knows but Dumbledore, Dippet, and now you.”

“Really? Even Dippet?” Tom had wondered how the two had come out of every incident unscathed, and that only made the Slytherin think all of Harry Potter’s claims were true to have gained the support of the stuffy old Headmaster.

“Yes. But they only know enough for them to trust us to do what we need to.”

“I see,” the Slytherin said, a small smirk gracing his face. “In this future you come from, I can only assume that I succeed. Is this why you’ve come? To stop me before I reach my goal?” The grave look Harry gave at his questions made Tom giddy, made his heart and stomach burn with triumph.

He succeeds…

“How many people have you killed at this point, Tom?” Harry asked out of the blue, turning his attention back to Hermione’s body, pulling Tom from his internal celebration and back to the room where he stood face to face with a now confirmed nemesis, who was now dragging his pointer finger up and down her left inner thigh, stopping just before her opening before descending again. The witch gave a small moan, and the muscles in her thighs flexed as the sensation tickled her nerves.

Tom tried desperately to ignore her as he answered Harry’s question, “It seems to me like you already know the answer.”

“I do,” was Harry’s easy reply, the man now setting in to tease the witches other leg.

“Then enlighten me,” Tom said, his eyes on Harry’s face, instead of being pulled to his hand like they wanted to be.

“Two. On accident… Ish…”

Tom felt rage begin to boil within him at Potter’s reference to his mother. To bloody hell with Myrtle. He asked the Gryffindors with a hateful sneer, “How many Mudbloods do I succeed in killing?”

Hermione nearly growled at Tom, which he smirked at, and Harry answered without skipping a beat, “Countless… I’d say you kill multiple thousands of people, magical, Muggle, and Muggle-born alike. All of them innocent.” Harry said all of this with his eyes on Hermione, and chose this as the perfect time to bring his finger up the witch’s thigh and lose it in her opening.

A prick of sweat began at Tom’s neck. The feeling surprised him, because he was usually cold- ice cold; cold-blooded. But he was even further surprised as the unfamiliar sensation caused a chill to run down his spine, and glared as something else rose, a feeling he knew had to be lust, because he’d never felt his cock respond to anything so strongly before. He was a man, after all, so “morning wood” happened, but had he ever done anything but piss it away? No. He did not feel the need for… release at that level, like others his age did.

Averting his eyes, though he could still hear the witch’s soft, vocal reactions to Harry’s motions, he forced himself to focus. He had to act as if this wasn’t bothering him, as if it wasn’t diluting his composure, as if it wasn’t causing his heat and hormones to spike, so that he could get his answers and leave. So that the next time he had his wand, he could dispatch them to whatever afterlife they believed in.

Tom had to keep his wits about him, had to stay on the task at hand, so he brought himself back to their conversation to ask, “Have you killed before, Potter?”

This pulled a sardonic laugh from the Gryffindor man’s throat- a bold, “Ha!”- and he pulled his hand away from the witch to turn to Tom once more, saying, “You know. You and I have so much that binds us. So much that keeps us connected, no matter what year it is, and I am now beginning to see exactly how much.” Tom furrowed his brows at this, and Harry began to pace as he began to explain himself.

“I will have you know that she and I paid a high price for this room. A higher price than you, Tom Riddle, could fathom. She and I? We have only each other, now. The friends and family we had in our time will no longer exist to us in the way they once did, because we can never return to our time. So all we have is our bet on you.”

Tom gave a small snort, inquiring, “What bet is that?”

The Slytherin had anticipated Harry’s answer to be, “The bet on which one of us can kill you faster/better/more creatively than the other.”

He did not expect it when Harry said, “That we can save you.”

Not many had cared to save him before, and the one that had did not play out well. Dumbledore could hardly look at Tom nowadays, which the younger wizard preferred.

“Save me?” Tom almost laughed. “Save me from what? If you wanted to save me, you undershot your destination by eighteen years. You should have gone back and killed my mother before I had to, so that none of this would have had to happen!” He had no other excuse as to why he said this, except that he was pretty sure, had he been them, that that would have been his plan of action. He would have taken himself out by the roots.

“We considered that,” Harry admitted with a nod, “But neither of us could decide who got to kill an innocent woman.”.

Tom’s darkening eyes shot to Hermione for the first time in a while, but only to spit, “I’m sure your Mudblood mouth shite that dribble!”

It was then that the Muggle-born witch surprised the Slytherin once more by wandlessly and wordlessly banishing her restraints and landing on her feet on the floor, which only struck an unnatural amount of fear in his heart at witnessing her abilities. She could perform wandless magic, while he was left defenseless. 

She ripped the ball gag from her mouth upon landing, and began to advance on him, moving so close to him he had to take a step into the bed, forced to sit as she put her face in his personal space to spit, “It was me, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Your Grace. Your Lordship. Voldemort!” She yelled his many names mockingly, without fear, and he wished more than ever that he had his wand so that he could kill the insolent woman. 

If he could...

“I have something you do not,” she went on. “I have the capacity to love and therefore feel compassion. Harry and I are offering you the chance of your lifetime! Of all of our lifetimes!”

“What do you plan to do, hm?” Tom asked, finding the Gryffidnor’s soft-heartedness not only annoying, but kind of sad in a way. There was no hope for him. She must know that by now.

“Whatever we can!” She continued to yell. His next question would be who had given the witch such false confidence in herself. She was strong, yes, but there was no way she could manage to do such a thing as save him; he who had already done unspeakable things to his soul. “We don’t know how, but we are willing to try. You should be! Are you so far gone that you don’t have a glimmer of hope for yourself? Was making your first Horcrux enough to make you unredeemable?”

Tom froze, wide-eyed, because they knew so much. So much!

“We can still save you,” she insisted, her voice softer. “Please,” she said, even though she should have known it wouldn’t work, “please let us try.”

The Slytherin did not know what to think, especially after he allowed himself to wonder about the specs of what a life like they suggested would be; a life with with love… Would he like it? Probably not. Not if it made him do insane things like give up his life to travel back in time 60 years in an improbable attempt to save the life of a genocidal 17-year-old.

“No!” Tom yelled, moving from the bed to scramble away from the naked woman pleading for him to be her lab rat. He found his footing and headed out of the bedroom for the door. When he discovered it was locked, and by means he could not detect without his wand, he felt his hate for the time travelers grow, and he demanded loudly from his place by the door, “Let me go! You will regret this!”

“Is that the Slytherin house motto, or something?” he heard Hermione “whisper” to Harry, who only responded by saying in a whiney voice,

“I’ll tell my father about this!”

“We should have brought that platinum prat with us,” Hermione answered.

“We saved that ponce as much as we could, ‘Mione. At least he isn’t in Azkaban. Or won’t be in Azkaban. Huh...”

“Let me go!” Tom yelled, maddeningly annoyed. They were having yet another one of those conversations that confused and vexed him, and he was growing short on patience and masks.

“No,” the Gryffindors called simultaneously from the bedroom.

Tom turned back to the door at this, and began to shake it by the handle, though it didn’t even give an inch. Eventually he let out a yell of frustration before letting go of the handle so that he could begin kicking it. When that didn’t work he punched it, then shook the handle again, before resorting back to kicking it. He then tried a wandless Alohamora that might have worked if the Gryffindors hadn’t used an advanced spell on the room. This frustrated him further, because he was sure the Mudblood witch had cast the spell, and she could undoubtedly undo it without her wand.

With a sharp exhale from his nose that was all too close to a huff a pouting child would give, he turned around as he called to them, “How did you become so strong, Mudblood? Do you have a potion..? Some spell..? Some hoodoo, voodoo you picked up from the Americas that made you the way you are?”

A couple of seconds passed before she answered, “Are you talking to me?”

With a deep scowl of hatred, Tom walked back to the bedroom in a huff, which he immediately regretted doing.

The time travelers had decided to stop standing by the bed, and now lay atop it; the Gryffindor man on his back, now as naked as the witch who sat atop him. She slowly rocked her hips back and forth, and Harry, who now had the gag in his mouth, was moaning around the black ball. His hands were pulled up and out, tied to the corner posts of the bed, and his hands flexed in attempt to, Tom assumed, reach for her.

As Tom froze at the sight of them, Hermione turned to look at him as she said in a voiced that hitched with pleasure, “He- made me stronger…” She glanced at Harry. “And you made me stronger, Tom. If I had never had to help Harry kill you, I wouldn’t be this powerful now.”

The witch’s words hit Tom like a ton of bricks. He lost all air, his footing, and landed on his arse as the past hour’s conversation drenched him with heaviness.

He doesn’t succeed.

He never succeeds in his plans to rule the world, to achieve immortality.

He tore his soul apart, and it is all for nothing.

He would die, and the two before him would be responsible…

…Unless he let them save him.

He stood then, quickly moving to his feet and towards the two on the bed. He grabbed her by her chin and forced her to keep eye contact as he asked, “How would you do it? Save me?”

The witch never stopped rocking, her golden eyes half-lidded in her ecstasy, and she answered, “Kiss me.”.

The man hesitated, wondering how kissing her had anything to do with saving his soul, but he did as she bid.

When he placed his lips slowly, robotically, to hers, he did not feel any different. He still held the hate in his heart. He thought to pull away, but it was almost as if she heard his thoughts, because she reached up to hold onto the collar of his shirt to keep him close, and when he opened his mouth to protest she slipped her tongue into his mouth to slide along his own. Instead of feeling disgust, like he usually felt when he had unfortunately witnessed other students snogging, he was intrigued by the act. It reminded him of snakes, coiling and writhing together for heat and breading, the feeling appeasing to his tongue, and he quickly found he enjoyed it well enough to continue. 

He felt differently then. Not cured. No way. But he felt his body reacting in a way it never had before, a way he was sure he never would. Not a single living soul had ever been tempting enough to kiss, but this witch, a Mudblood of all things, stirred something in him that pulled at his curiosity; that left him wondering about the possibilities.  
Harry suddenly made a feral grunt around his gag that made Hermione moan wantonly into Tom’s mouth, the Slytherin choosing that time to kneel on the bed for stability to capture the sound the usually quiet witch made. She hardly ever spoke unless spoken to. She never raised her hand to answer questions in class, even though everyone knew she knew the answers. Her marks were too high to suggest anything else. When she spoke to Harry it was in whispers. He’d only heard her laugh a handful of times, but he’d never heard this before.

She moved her hand from his collar to wrap her arm around neck for stability as she freed Harry so that he could roll out from underneath her to lay spent on the other side of the bed, and she pressed her bare chest to his clothed one, and he did not pull away. He didn’t know if it was because it was the anomalous witch, or if it was what she promised, or if it was the curiosity that had always fueled Tom, always drove him into questioning everything, and everyone, and always wanting to know more, but whatever it was it didn’t let him fight her.

Not right now, anyway.

Tom moved his hand from her neck, down her body to her waist, and during its journey he marveled the softness of both her marred and perfect skin. She was supple, and powerful, and he found himself quickly lost in her hold.

But she pulled away from him, which he was momentarily confused about until she began to slide his robes from his arms, then began undoing the buttons of his shirt. While she did so, he was able to study her face closely, something he had never had the pleasure of doing before, and out of all the things he noticed he saw her eyes were telling. Her walls were down, and even with their kiss he could see that her eyes held determination, an expression that he decided he liked, that he could tell she’d held most of her life.

This was all pulled from his mind, though, when she pulled his trousers and pants from his hips, the clothing heaping on the floor at his feet. He felt the shock of his nakedness, but Hermione’s determination wouldn’t let him concentrate on it, for she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to lie on his back on the bed next to Harry, climbing onto him and resuming the kisses that had made him lose his thoughts.

With his own determination he kissed her back, his hands moving up into the hair at the base of her neck, but broke away when a gasp left his lips at her touching his semi-hard cock; stroking it, sending shivers throughout Tom’s body, making him ask in a tone full of pleasure and confusion, “What are you doing to me, witch?”

“She’s showing you the only love you can handle right now,” Harry answered. Tom looked over to him, and he found it strange that there was another man in the bed with them- supposedly the man who would end him- but everything about this situation was strange. Completely bizarre. “Let her,” Harry urged before he leaned over to kiss Tom himself, which made the Slytherin attempt to freeze with shock, which was really hard with Hermione’s mouth finding its way onto his prick.

He jumped at the contact, breaking away from Harry to stare down at the witch as she took him into her mouth as deep as possible, all while keeping her eyes on his. She stopped an inch or two from the base before gagging and pulling away, still not turning her eyes from his, even as they watered and she caught her breath. Tom had not only enjoyed the feeling, but liked her noises, her discomfort, and her beautiful eyes rimmed with tears. He liked it so much he put his hand in her hanging, curly locks, and using them like a leash as he pulled her down. She did not protest, only placed her mouth back onto him and started to lift and drop her mouth on him in a way that made him groan and lay his head back on the pillow.

Harry reached over to turn Tom’s face to him, and began to kiss him like Hermione had earlier, and Tom found he liked kissing Harry this way even more than he had the witch, because it felt like Harry had used his tongue for more than just human speech.

Hermione’s hot hand moved up to cup Tom’s bollocks, lightly pulling and rolling, causing a reaction in his sack that tugged at his abdomen, and settled a tingling ache of pleasure in his genitals. It felt so foreign still, yet so brilliant, forcing the novice lover to pull away from Harry to moan, “Her mouth feels bloody fantastic.”

Harry gave a short, airy laugh before going to his knees beside them, and pulled the witch off of Tom, who was none too pleased at the interference, only to tell the Slytherin, “You should feel her pussy.” He grabbed Hermione by her waist to help her straddle Tom, then used his right hand to grab the reclined man’s cock, holding the tip skyward as he used his other hand to push her down onto the “no-longer innocent” Slytherin.

He should not have allowing this, really. She was a Mudblood, but her submissive nature shined through when Harry handled her, and Tom liked that above all else. She was strong, capable, deadly, but she melted at Harry’s rough touch, and dripped at the feeling of Tom entering her. Her ability to bow to the will of another, even if she could easily kill them, gave Tom a new sense of power he was previously unaware existed. He’s seen other males act like idiots for the touch of their woman, and Tom would just look at them with disdain written on his features.

Was this feeling why?

The feeling of a beautiful witch atop them the reason?

Would Tom now do that himself? Now that he knew what he could have with the Gyffindors?

Hermione lowering herself onto Tom made the man maddeningly full of both lust and self-loathing; the latter stemming from the former. He was instantaneously hooked- the way she felt, the way she kissed, the way she looked at Tom as if he owned her pleasure; the look of control and lust in Harry’s eyes as he watched Tom’s reactions to their actions.

The scarred man used his right hand to pull the Slytherin’s pants from his ankles before straddling Tom’s legs himself. When he was settled, he pulled Hermione’s head back with a handful of her head, and while he kept eye-contact with Tom, he commanded the witch, “Ride him. Slowly.” She did so. She gave five solid rocks of her hips before he ordered, “Stop.”

She did.

“Wh- why?” Tom asked, angry that the pleasurable motions the witch was making were so suddenly ceased.

Harry used his hand in her hair to push the witch’s chest almost flush with Tom’s before he grabbed one of the Slytherin’s hands, and made it take the place of the one in the witch’s curls. With his green eyes boring into Tom’s, and a gravity in his voice, Harry told him, “She’s mine. If you hurt her without either of us saying you can do so, I won’t have any problem killing you again.”

At first, Tom did not like Harry’s tone or his commanding him… but a part of him, whether it be curiosity, fear, or full-blown lust, did not want to cross either of them. Hermione had powers that both intrigued, frightened, and angered the Slytherin, so he would not harm her. Not this night, anyway.

Tom nodded his understanding, and Harry released them before moving to sit in a chair that appeared out of nowhere. With glittering green eyes he took his place in his chair, and watched the two on the bed; neither of which were disturbed by this. Well, Tom had been for a second, but he understood the glee one could take from watching. Setting the Basilisk free from the chamber had been quite satisfying for Tom to watch. Watching Myrtle being taken out of a gurney was also miraculous to watch.

But Myrtle was the type of Mudblood Tom had heard of. Hermione was something else.

It was as Harry had said; they were more alike, and more connected, than Tom could imagine.

With a handful of the witch’s hair, Tom pulled her to look him in the eyes, before commanding, “Ride me.”

She did so as if the seconds that spanned between this command and the last had lasted a lifetime; her hips grinding down before lifting herself off of him to the tip of his prick, slamming herself back down, and then repeated the action over and over so vigorously that Tom did not know he was coming until he gasped into the full lips he held to his own.  
The witch moaned into him as she chased her own pleasure, continuing her rocking/ grinding until she said into his mouth, “More. Tom. Please…”

She was begging him! The Mudblood was begging for more of him, and that thought was sick enough to excite his softening cock. If anything, it was harder than before, and the newly sexually experienced Tom did not have to think on what he wanted from her; did not have to question whether or not he would give her what she needed.

Why he cared what the impure witch wanted, well… he would not understand the answer until some years into their relationship.

Gripping her hair tightly, he pulled her off to the side of him and pushed her face into the pillows. Holding her down her pulled her hips up and back as he went to his knees behind her, holding his cock as he entered her quickly, asking her, “Do you know what I am?”

“Yes,” she answered darkly. Tom liked it.

“Do you know that you sicken me?”

“Do you know that you sicken me?” At her sass, Tom slapped her on the side of her ribs, making her whimper, and Tom loved it.

“Good,” he said mockingly. “I’m glad I sicken you, because that is only making this better for me.”

“Good,” she ground out.

Tom lowered his chest to her back, and, for good measure, asked the woman below him a question, all whilst keeping his eyes glued to Harry’s. “Do you need me, Mudblood?”

She did not answer initially. Once Harry said loudly, “Answer him,” was she able to do to so.

“Yes!” she shouted as Tom pulled her face from her pillow an inch or two.

Releasing her hair and sitting up, he put his hands on her hips so as to begin moving in and out of her at a speed that pleased him, that seemed to cause her pain and pleasure, and the Slytherin Heir had to growl in appreciation at the sounds she made.

Through this encounter, there were many things discussed between Lord Voldemort and the Muggle-born witch on her knees before him.

… “How do you like fucking a Mudblood, Tom?” she asked, voice slightly muffled by pillows.

“I love that I get to fuck you like a dog, you filthy bitch,” was his answer. …

… “What is my real name, Mudlood?”

“Lord- Voldemort!” she finally gave in, after his asking three times, and all three times accompanied by a smack to her arse. …

… “After you make me cum, I am going to kill you!” she exclaimed through gritted teeth. He could feel the promise of another release at her threat, causing him to dig deeper, bringing the witch closer to the edge as he dug his nails into the flesh at the tops of her arse, pulling her back onto him with greed.

“Tom. I’m coming!” she groaned after six or so more bucks of Tom’s hips, which did nothing but pull the Slytherin over the edge; evaporating all vehemence, his body turning into a wildfire of tingles and spasms of ecstasy at the feeling of her body milking his; the man groaning his second climax into the witch.

As his orgasm began to face, and he was finally able to open his eyes, for they’d closed when he’d cum, and he locked eyes with the reflection of himself in the mirror above the headboard. At first, of course, he did not recognize himself. How could he? The image was no just startling, but the man was taken by abject horror at the sight.

He was completely bald, and as pale and translucent as the dead. He had snake-like eyes, instead of his usual brown; the two orbs red instead. His nose was merely two slits above thin lips that smiled at back at him cruelly, fangs evident in the grin, while Tom’s actual face held a look of repulsion.

With a loud cry of terror and surprise, Tom tore from the bed, stumbling back until he ran into the divider wall and slid to the floor; his eyes glued to the mirror. He did not understand, could not understand, what he’d just seen. He sat staring the silver-lined rectangle above the bed, contemplating its meaning.

The Gyffindors knew what he’d seen. Harry moved to this side first, slowly, and sat a foot away, and Hermione followed him a minute later on shaking legs. She sat between Tom and Harry, saying in a soft voice, “That is what you become, Tom… That is who we all feared, and what haunted our nightmares… That is what starts two Blood Wars, and that is who Harry killed… will kill.” She licked her lips in nervousness when Tom turned to look at her, and added, “We want to save everyone. This includes you. And we only have a little time. You turn 18 soon, and we want you to make it past 71, as a man totally different from the one you saw in the mirror.

“I will work my entire life to make it so. Harry and I both will. Please let us. Please let me try, Tom. Please.”

The man he’d seen in the mirror, the man he would become after sacrificing every inch of soul, would die looking like a monster. He would die, his outsides as cold and lifeless as his insides… He would die.

He did not want to die, for it was his greatest fear; the one thing he would do anything to avoid.

Tom took them both in, the two stripped bare of clothes, bondage, and masks. He could not say that their pleas made him feel mercy, or hope, and he could not say that it was even mercy or hope that he felt, but he did say,

“OK. You can try.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please leave a review. And thank my lovely beta, I was BOTWP!


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